Long ere this he had learned that she and Mabel were somewhat discontented. This kind of station, in a species of enemy's country, and so remote from all the world, where steamers, telegraphs, and railways were all unknown, was not the India to which they had looked forward, and to which they had been previously accustomed. They should have preferred Calcutta, with its streets of snow-white palaces, its stately villas at Gardenreach, the spacious course for driving, riding, promenading, and most decidedly for flirting. At Cabul all was semi-barbarism, as compared with Chowringhee, the Park Lane, the Belgravia of the Indian capital. Rose knew thoroughly the science of dress. She never, even when in England, chose colours merely for their beauty, but such as she knew by tone and contrast, enhanced the power of her own. She now wore a costume of light blue Cabul silk, trimmed with the most delicate white lace, and she knew that she looked to the utmost advantage. As she lay back on the sofa, playing with a feather-fan, vivacity and langour were alternately the expression of her sunny hazel eyes, for she was pre-eminently a coquette, and had resolved to amuse herself for a time with her new, and as yet, silently professed admirer. "So you are not yet tired of Cabul?" she began, after a pause. "Oh no, far from it," replied Denzil, with a glance which he thought, or wished to be thought, full of tender meaning. "How odd! I used to think India a fine place, but this Cabul, oh, it is simply horrid! There is neither a piano or harp in the whole city. To be sure there are no Europeans here, save the Queen's troops." "The climate is temperate in summer," urged Denzil for want of something better to say. "But nevertheless, the place is unendurable, and I hope papa will soon get a command elsewhere, that we, at least, may leave." "I trust not." "Why?" "Can you really ask me--why?" said Denzil, lowering his voice, while gazing into her laughing eyes, with undisguised tenderness; then he added, "we do not wish to lose you." "Poor Mr. Devereaux! I think you are very fond of papa; for his Cornish name, perhaps," and as no one was looking, she patted his cheek with her fan. "I love something more than the mere Cornish name of Trecarrel," said Denzil, tremulously; but Rose only bit the feathers of her fan, and eyed him laughingly over it.